


heal your frays (you'll wear them thin again)

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Jealous Bellamy, M/M, Sad Bellamy, canonverse, gay murphamy, he's just lonely tbh, lil bit less angst, lil bit of fluff, post 3x12/finale, some violence, sort of unrequited crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-11 06:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7879663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The canopy overhead drips with freshly fallen rain and reveals peeks of solid grey sky, and the silence between them other than the crunching of leaves underfoot is interrupted by a flash of yellows and browns. She pulls his fist from his jacket and intertwines their fingers with ease. Murphy immediately looks calmer with her, gentler, and Bellamy's stomach does the angriest of somersaults.</p><p>He's sure it's wrong. But he's not sure he cares so much anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. peel off the name that i gave (and i knew you wore within)

**Author's Note:**

> the work title as well as all chapter titles are from the song cold by novo amor, which is my favorite ""murphamy"" song. 10/10 a soft listen. i highly recommend.
> 
> i hope you guys will like this alright, i'm not so sure about it because the idea came to me at like three in the morning last night and i only actually have like three chapters planned out so uh... kinda winging it. it's a very chill fic pls don't expect a lot of wild action and excitement.
> 
> p.s. the work summary is a passage from a future chapter
> 
> enjoy! or not whatever

  

When Bellamy was young, when his baby sister still adored him, he read golden legends of gods and goddesses, flipped through the darkened pages of villains and heroes, and tongue-tripped his way through novels about life and love, concepts he wasn't sure he fully understood and likely never would. No familiar grain of paper between his fingers, no leather binding filling the creases of his small palms, could have ever prepared him for the horror show that life really was. He was supposed to be a god, a hero, he was supposed to love his sister forever and be loved in return.

He was supposed to live.

But Bellamy wasn't Janus or Ares-- maybe he was Hades. Villains were everywhere down here, and he was damn sure that he was no hero. He hadn't felt that easy warmth of "love" in a while.

And living, truly living, was fleeting.

Whenever you thought you were finally safe, if you let your bones settle in your skin for a moment, if you dared to rest your eyes, there'd be a body at your feet when you opened them.

And that's where he was now, at the finish line of one bloodbath and marching head on into another inevitable death sentence. It never fucking ended, did it?

 

\---

 

It was when the room stopped spinning, when the dazed stopped seeing in doubles, when the wounded’s worlds came back into focus- that someone finally spoke up.

“What now?”

Every head in the room with a beating heart beneath it turned to look at the source of the voice, none other than Nathan Miller. Heaving breaths filled the silence as everyone stared at each other, wondering what exactly came next.

Bloodied bodies rose from the floor, tired arms slid away from the sweat-doused backs and shoulders of loved ones, and all tears momentarily stopped falling. Bellamy had never heard such a deafening silence in all his short life.

“We go home,” Clarke decided, always the leader, no matter how reluctant, and Bellamy glanced down at her where she sat slouched upon the Commander’s throne, justifiably exhausted.

Everyone waited for her next order, some drifting thoughtlessly to the wide throne room doors, pushing chairs and tables aside from the destroyed blockade with shaking hands and blank faces- but Clarke appeared fresh out of motivation to organize any trip, so Bellamy unpocketed his hands and made his way with painful but powerful strides to the center of the room.

“We'll split into groups, individual leaders. Miller and Bryan take one each, as large a group as you think you can handle and watch over.” Bellamy looked to them for agreement and the two men nodded, swiftly following commands and rounding up shaken survivors from the throne room. Bellamy watched on with something akin to pride as the couple ended up taking nearly everyone in the room out of the doors and down the respective hall, before Miller appeared in the center of them once again, facing Bellamy. “How exactly do you propose we get down?”

Bellamy stared blankly, wracking his dead-weight, sleep-deprived brain for an answer. As Miller shuffled his feet and began to cross his arms in that impatient manner of his, heavy footsteps sounded somewhere off to Bellamy’s right. He glanced over just in time to see Murphy approach the balcony and lean over it to shout, _“Hey!”_ at the very top of his lungs.

Bellamy quirked up an eyebrow and made his way to follow, sidling up next to the boy as he leaned dangerously far over the railing, waving his hands to get the attention of those down below. Bellamy’s stomach clenched at the sight of those who presumably fell from their places climbing the side of the building, their brains scattered amongst each other on the pavement. Some survivors of the fall writhed in pain on the ground, bones shattered as they groaned and screamed out in agony. Murphy seemed oblivious, but Bellamy could’ve sworn that for a short moment the younger man’s careless façade had broken, as he scrunched up his nose and drug a quivering hand over his mouth before quickly looking away and landing eyes on a mostly-attentive looking C.O.L. survivor. “Hey, you! Round up some people to get the elevator working, we got a lot of survivors up here!”

The man on the receiving end of Murphy’s shouts nods firmly, turning on his heel to hopefully follow said orders, and Murphy seems satisfied, glancing up towards the man on his right, possibly for some sign of approval. Bellamy remembers faintly the way he used to do that so often in their first days on the ground, looking to Bellamy for a slight nod, a grunt of satisfaction, anything to suggest that he had done something good. Bellamy had manipulated that, used the boy’s desire to do something right for his own motivations, but somehow the guilt that should be expected had never really set in.

So Bellamy nods, and Murphy nods back, almost too quickly, pockets his fists, and takes off towards the doors again. Bellamy follows close behind and watches on as the brunet approaches a small woman with a kind face decorated by an intimidating swirl of ink, and a head of dark brown hair wrapped in cloth. The girl reaches for Murphy’s hand, her own looking much like a claw of sorts, and pulls him in close. Bellamy wills his jaw not to drop when she rests her head on his chest and he... _smiles_ in response- an action somehow entirely more shocking than his presumable girlfriend’s mutation. He’s sure he’s never seen Murphy smile like that, never so soft and genuine, so honest. He’s only ever seen those oh-so-common devilish smirks and bared teeth, and there’s something strangely comforting about seeing this side of him. Something that assures Bellamy he isn’t truly a threat, that he can be trusted. Reminds him that he’s a person.

It makes him want to keep the boy around.

Bellamy roughly shakes himself from his deepening thoughts and takes a seat on the steps, feeling a bit uncomfortable over his sudden inexplicable fondness for the son of a bitch who somehow ruins his life over and over again. He decides not to dwell on it too much, and scolds himself when he finds his eyes drifting back to the couple as they lower themselves to the floor and begin to talk animatedly about something, Murphy’s hands moving wildly as the girl laughs, encouraging him.

“You jealous or something?” a familiar voice calls from his left, softly, and Bellamy glances up with something akin to abhorrence gracing his features. “Yeah, right. I can already tell they’re disgusting.” “Disgustingly cute, maybe.” “Whatever you wanna call it, Clarke.”

She lets out an audible huff and rises from her seat to drop herself down beside him on the steps, smiling almost dreamily at Murphy and his... lady. “Raven told me you and that Gina girl were the same way. Always holding hands and kissing and hugging. I imagine it was sickening.” A pink tint visibly rises to Bellamy cheeks even as his heart seems to break a little bit more at the mere thought of Gina, and he drops his head to hide it. Clarke stops wiping at the dried blood under her nose for a moment, tilting her head to try and gauge his reaction. Bellamy attempts to ease back into the calmer waters of the conversation, endlessly grateful for the lightheartedness of it. “Then what makes those two so cute, if Gina and I were so _“sickening?_ ””

Clarke barks out a laugh at the tone of his voice, smiling at her dirtied boots. Bellamy can’t help but grin a little in response. “Just because it’s... you know, it’s Murphy. It’s just endearing to see the tough guy turn into a softie, right?” Bellamy glances up at her words, watching as Murphy reaches up to straighten the cloth on the girl’s head, smoothing down the ripples in it much like a mother might fix the clothes of their child, and Bellamy’s stomach flips without explanation or warning.

Clarke elbows him in the ribs when he lacks a response, and Bellamy grumbles, shaking his head and avoiding the question. “You saying I'm not a tough guy?” he practically whines, and Clarke snickers into her hand, prepared to answer, when Miller shoves open the door to announce that the elevator is working and half of their group is already down with Bryan, waiting for the rest and hopefully helping other survivors. Bellamy brushes off his knees and stands up, mentally wincing for a moment at the harsh slap back to reality.

He silently wishes for a day when he can gossip about his friend’s love lives in peace, longer than a few seconds, cherishing in extent the lightness it brings to feel at least a little bit normal again.

“Alright, you heard the man, everyone head for the elevator!” he declares, and a few people seem to take this as an urgent command, stumbling over one another in their mad rush for the doors. “Calmly!” he adds, voice rising in volume and clarity, and hears Murphy snicker from behind him. He turns to shoot a nasty glare at the boy, only half-heartedly, and the other gives one of his infamous easy smirks in response.

As Clarke flanks him on the left, strutting forward easily, chin tilted high as always, he wonders when she plans on discussing the apparent End of All Things with him, or any of them. It’s almost as if she’s put the information away, momentarily forgotten. While part of Bellamy is dying to understand, to fight it- the other half doesn’t want to know.

The second half of Miller’s group packs into the elevator like sardines, Arkers shuffling away from the Grounders, feeling threatened- and Grounders shuffling for a bit of air, more unused to tight, crowded spaces. The doors close, the last recognizable face being Miller’s, unusually hardened and serious even as he shifts uncomfortably away from other squirming passengers.

Bellamy glances over his shoulder at his smaller group, a few leftover faces that aren’t so familiar, and some that are. Murphy, Murphy’s girlfriend, Jackson, Kane- eyes glued shamefully to the floor as Abby rests her head on one of his broad shoulders- and Jaha, who Bellamy kind of wishes had died in the throne room. The ex-Chancellor is speaking to himself in hushed whispers, wringing his hands as his dull-looking eyes dart around the room and scan the surrounding weary faces. He makes momentary eye contact with Murphy, whose eyes visibly darken as he scowls in return. Jaha looks away quickly and Murphy’s stiffened shoulders seem to relax in satisfaction.

Bellamy stifles a grin while considering the way Murphy goes about his interactions, like a wolf always fighting to be the Alpha. It shouldn’t be endearing, no part of him should ever be called that, and Bellamy curses Clarke for ever putting the idea in his head. He's prone to suggestion, that's all.

Bellamy’s just always been a sucker for stories. For characters, for myths, for legends. Murphy could be one, disappearing for months at a time and then popping up where he doesn't belong and either saving the day or destroying it. He's exciting, unpredictable. Bellamy likes him as a concept only, he decides. That’s all.

A concept.

That’s all.

Eventually the elevator comes back up to receive the last group and snatches a daydreaming Bellamy from his daze as everyone begins to shuffle inside, labored breathing and twitching hands as they shove at each other for space, another duplicate can of sardines.

It’s just his fucking luck that he ends up in the furthest corner of the dimly lit death-box, pressed up against a somewhat shorter, smaller figure that could be no other. Murphy shifts a bit, sidling up closer to the wall and moving backwards ever-so-slightly, much to Bellamy’s internal protests. He unknowingly brushes up against Bellamy as the elevator jolts into movement, and the taller man almost groans in despair as Murphy backs his ass and shoulders directly into him. That single act of somewhat suggestive contact startles the boy and he looks over his shoulder with a rather unattractive angry-face, looking vaguely scandalized before he realizes who it is. Bellamy’s ready to tell Murphy that him rubbing himself up against the passenger behind him is entirely his damn fault and he needs to not say whatever he was about to say, but Murphy visibly relaxes when he sees that it’s just Bellamy and quirks up a thick eyebrow.

“Don’t get any ideas, Blake," he drawls, fortunately moving out of Bellamy's space what little he can. The curly-haired man rolls his eyes, but tightens his fists by his sides and curses under his breath when Murphy turns back around, looking mostly unaffected, but adopts a pinkness to the apples of his cheeks and tips of his ears as he does so.

Bellamy spends the rest of the elevator ride tucked as far back into the corner as his- in _this_ situation- unfortunately muscular body can possibly concave to, and Murphy doesn't acknowledge him again, but keeps one pale hand firmly glued to the wall and looks tense beyond imagination. Bellamy receives only one other reaction for the remainder of the time- when the elevator jumps again and sends Bellamy quickly throwing out a stiff arm to place his hand in the center of Murphy's back, both to keep him upright and to keep him away- and Murphy pulls his shoulders forward, out of his touch. Bellamy can't help but feel momentarily offended, even though he's essentially doing the same.

When at last the doors open, though, Murphy spares a quick glance over his shoulder at Bellamy, who's sucking in to keep as much distance between the two of them as possible and holding his breath, and Murphy can’t help but grin a little bit mischievously. The latter feels his heart stutter at the sight, and is horrified with himself for it. At that moment Murphy’s nameless girlfriend tugs him out by his arm and leads him down the low-lit hall and into the bloodied street, leaving the other man behind, stunned, in the corner of a now-empty elevator.

Bellamy breathes in deeply and shakes out his fists, wiping the sweat from his palms on the outsides of his thighs. 

 

A concept. That's all.

 

 

 


	2. forget our nave (the summer spent within)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's some more garbage

 

 

Bellamy’s knees are weak, joints straining under the weight of him as he makes his way along the cobblestone, fresh blood staining the walkway underfoot crimson and leaving the taste of copper in the air.

There’s a faint rustling of the ankle of his pants, and his eyes fall to a blood-stained hand palming weakly at his leg.

_“Sis au, b-beja.”*_

Bellamy blinks, momentarily stunned by the reality of the situation. This mangled piece of meat lying at the toes of his boots is alive, and real, and thinks that he can help them.

Their hands and feet are soaked entirely in their own blood, gaping holes in the center of them, and a bone is protruding out of their left leg like a white flag, surrendering.

Bellamy glances up for a moment and finds something akin to a cross above the figure, towering oak stained in the lifeblood of it’s victims, a wooden ladder to it’s left. The wounded Grounder must have been nailed to it, and then removed when assumed dead. Bellamy’s imagining how they must have pulled the nails from first their feet, then the hands, and left the body to come crashing down onto the cobblestone- when someone approaches from his left and kneels down in front of the victim. It’s that kind nurse whose name Bellamy cannot recall, and he makes quick work with steady hands doing whatever the fuck he’s doing. No-name-nurse looks up at the man at his side and knits his eyebrows together, hands never faltering, as if to say, _“What the hell are you doing?”_

Bellamy backs out of his space and pivots on his heel to assess the rest of the street, the background soundtrack of blood-curdling screams and echoing groans slowly fading into white noise, and lands eyes on a familiar figure crouched over another fallen inhabitant.

He watches, stock-still as Murphy kneels down and holds his hands over the woman’s body, palms hovering just a foot or so above her with quivering uncertainty. The woman doesn’t thrash, or scream, just lies there. The boy continues to float over the stilled body, never making a move, and Bellamy’s face twists up in bewilderment as he makes quick strides across the street and stops to shove at his shoulder. “Dude?”

Murphy shudders, jumping away from Bellamy’s touch and stumbling from his crouched position to land on his ass in the wet, blood-caked street. Bellamy has one eyebrow raised and stares down at Murphy with amusement, until the younger man looks up with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “I can’t,” he says, voice cracking pitifully. Bellamy’s face falls as he looks from the body, to the knife clutched in Murphy’s white-knuckle grip, and back to the body. It’s chest rises and falls in half a second, the most miniscule of movements. Bellamy can’t contain his gasp, and stumbles forward to drop to his knees and press his fingers to her pulse in disbelief.

Murphy crawls weakly to his side and runs a shaking, black-blood doused hand through his hair. “Jackson said we don’t have the equipment to save her.”

The curly-haired man blinks, looking to his right, and Murphy mirrors him. They meet eyes for a moment, clear blue on earth. Bellamy finally understands the task at hand when his fist is pried open by a set of cold fingers, and the chill of a blade presses against his palm. The boy forces Bellamy’s fist closed around the knife, his palm draped over the back of Bellamy’s hand, and it just fits too right to be anything but wrong.

He looks up again to look into Murphy’s pleading eyes, and starts to shake his head in protest. He can’t do this, either. He’s never been strong enough, he thinks, recalling Atom’s pleading whispers and the pounding of his heart.

The woman breathes again, and the rattling, aching sound of it sends shivers down Bellamy’s aching spine. She's struggling, hurting. Murphy’s breathing quickens in turn and he grips Bellamy’s fist tighter. “Please,” he begs. Bellamy looks away.

Murphy inhales deeply, then, and the air sounds like it pains him going down.

“She- she looks too much like Mom.”

Bellamy's heart fucking shatters.

Murphy’s eyes finally spill over at the confession, and he's never really seen him cry. He doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to because it’s so fucked up. It’s so fucked up. Someone like him should never cry. Someone like Murphy who made him believe nothing but steel ran through his veins, someone like Murphy who made everyone believe he was the furthest thing from human.

And Murphy doesn’t shake, or blink, or gasp. He just cries, silent and still, and it’s the most terrifying thing Bellamy has ever seen. He rips his hand away from Murphy’s and looks at the ground. “Go.”

Murphy stumbles, rising up on shaking legs and Bellamy wishes he hadn’t seen his hands twitch like that, wishes he hadn’t seen the boy lean forward on his toes like he was going to do something about it. Like he was going to thank him, or something. Because he didn’t.

The brunet turns, steady, and grabs his fingers, twisting and intertwining them as he walks, all nerves, shame and drying tears. Bellamy stares after him until his silhouette disappears in the fog.

And when he plunges the knife into the woman’s neck, Clarke’s lullaby on his tongue, he doesn’t feel a fucking thing, and everything all at once.

Murphy needed him.

 

\---

 

The sun is setting in a palette of pinks and oranges when they’re finally banished from Polis, as the Grounders had come to the eventual decision that in the end, Skaikru had brought this plague upon them. And they weren’t entirely wrong, either, but leaving them behind to tend to their wounded and set flame to their dead alone seemed like a greater sin.

Walking past tattooed faces stretched in agony, fur-clothed bodies writhing and shaking, and having to keep his chin up and eyes forward to avoid a spearhead in his jugular, was perhaps the greatest challenge of all. Even Bellamy’s past (and slightly current) contempt for the Grounders wasn’t enough to keep his fingers from twitching towards the hurt in sympathy, an almost crippling need to ease their suffering like he had done hours before.

The gates to the fallen city are soon approaching, swinging slowly, heavily, and without aim in the wind as they lie opened, unprotected, for perhaps the first time in years. It’s a haunting sight, to say the very least.

He can see the steady clearing through the thick forest surrounding the city’s walls, a long dirt path leading to fuck knows where, and considers the dangers of the route that they’ll have to take to sooner reach the empty plains surrounding Arkadia- when he realizes that all of their enemies lie behind them.

Nature, however, is an unhalting force, he thinks- but as his feet land parallel to the gate hinges, and the image of a familiar safe haven is the only thing in mind, he decides they’ll take their chances.

It’s time to go home.

 

\--

 

He’s scanning the woods for Octavia, hopeless yet naive, when he realizes he’s begun squinting against the shadows over the trees. It’s night, at last, and he can’t see all that far in front of his face anymore. He’s snapped out of his trance by both his lacking eyesight and the moaning complaints of others about the dangers in the dark and their exhausted limbs.

Miller and Bryan’s groups have both been long gone, much further ahead than Bellamy’s. Clarke and additionally Abby’s merged group trails significantly behind. He thinks if he squints he can see firelight, (but the possibility he’s imagining it is just as likely, if not more) and decides they probably have the right idea.

“Let’s get a few fires going and stop for the night, yeah?” Bellamy proclaims, and many grunts of agreement resound in the darkness before the shuffling ensues again, people dropping where they stand like flies or heading off to collect firewood and stones.

Bellamy crouches to pick up a dry, thick twig at his feet, and then turns to gather more off the path. He’s breaking a branch off of a fallen tree when he hears footsteps, and turns, alarmed, arm extended and stick poised to attack.

“Woah there, Freckles. S’just me,” the voice calls, and Bellamy squints to find none other than _Him,_ hands frozen in air in a universal "I mean no harm!" signal, and a twisted-up look plastered onto his face.

“Oh, hey,” Bellamy supplies, voice flat as he hurriedly turns away and begins gathering wood again, occupying his suddenly sweat-slicked hands. Murphy presumably joins him after a moment, boots crushing dried leaves and too-small twigs with minimum care or grace.

“Five, six- pick up sticks,” Murphy begins to sing-song, and Bellamy groans without hesitation. “No.” Murphy laughs at that, bright and genuine and echoing in the dark, and Bellamy wishes he could see his face. He’s never heard him laugh like that before.

The day is just full of firsts, apparently, and Bellamy kind of wants to die. Not to overreact.

Murphy continues to hum the song, and when Bellamy finally has a satisfactory bundle of firewood and is sick and tired of Murphy’s uncharacteristically radiating happiness creating an uncomfortable sense of warmth in the pit of his stomach, he decides to head back towards the clearing.

“Wait up, asshole!” Murphy hisses, and shuffles to catch up to him. Bellamy silently wonders if he’s afraid of the dark. Or, well, being alone in the dark.

They walk in silence for a moment, and it’s too intimate, for some reason. It’s too different. Murphy always talks.

“You okay?”

The shorter boy pauses, stunned, and then rushes to catch up to Bellamy again. “Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Bellamy shifts the twigs up higher in his arms, suddenly regretting his question. “Just, you know...”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Thank you. For doing that."

Bellamy fumbles, and all of his precious sticks tumble to the ground with muffled clicks. “Fuck.”

Murphy crouches with him, his smaller bundle tucked safely under his arm, and he uses his free hand to help gather some of Bellamy’s mess. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Their hands touch in the dark as they reach for the same twig. Bellamy recoils as if burned, suddenly grateful for the pitch black of night to hide the blush that he can feel burning through the entirety of his body. He feels juvenile for it, but the phantom feeling of Murphy’s bony knuckles under smooth skin against the side of his hand still makes him shudder.

A concept. A concept. A concept.

A voice clears the mind fog. “Did we get all of ‘em?”

Bellamy imagines shaking himself by the scruff of his neck. _Snap out of it._ “Yeah, I think.”

Murphy stands and heads back towards the path, and Bellamy follows close behind, still cherry red from head to toe and planning on taking his sweet time starting the fire, as to not let anyone see. Their ignorance, his bliss.

Bellamy crouches, dumping the dry grass from the center of his bundle in one spot on the ground, and then begins to twirl a single stick in the center of it. He’s about a minute in, calloused palms beginning to take on that numbed feeling, when he hears Murphy sigh. Again.

“You wanna do it?”

“No, but thanks.”

“Then quit sighing, or I’ll leave it to you.”

“Couldn’t if I tried. Didn’t pay attention in Earth Skills”

“I’m literally doing it right now, you just- you twirl a stick.”

Murphy yawns. “Can’t see. Too dark. Maybe if we had a fire I’d be able to.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes and continues his work, ignoring the rustling coming from Murphy’s side of the almost-fire. He soon hears a muffled crackling, and spots the tell-tale rising smoke. The grass quickly bursts into flames, and Bellamy feels a small spurt of joy. He’s always liked doing that.

When the fire spreads through the grass, Bellamy drops his bundle into the flames and wipes his hands together, mostly satisfied. Though he wishes it were a little larger.

“Murphy, put your sticks in, man.”

The boy, now lying on his side and facing away from the fire, doesn’t stir. “Lazy son of a bitch,” Bellamy grumbles, stomping around the fire to where Murphy lies, arms wrapped tightly around his gathered firewood, sound asleep.

Bellamy feels laughter bubble up inside of him, incredulous of how quickly the pale boy knocks out. He’s not sure how it’s scientifically possible to fall asleep that fast, let alone on the ground.

He hesitates, but decides if he wants to keep the fire going for a little while he’ll need Murphy’s sticks, so he crouches down and peels the boy’s collection from his loose grip, taking his time wrapping a hand around a milky-skinned but heavily scarred arm, eyes scanning every detail of it with intense focus.

Bellamy likes to examine people, to look at them. But people always have something to say about that, and the looks he gets don’t suggest that his analyzation is appreciated. Especially Murphy, who’s never failed to snap at him with something snarky every time he catches Bellamy staring. In his defense, it’s purely a fascination with anatomy, and it applies to everyone Bellamy stares at.

At least that’s what he’s been telling himself.

He makes note that Murphy’s much more muscular now, particularly in the arms and maybe even the thighs, considering his pants seem to fit differently since he last saw him. (Bellamy immediately scolds himself for that observation, physically cringing at his own train of thought. _Fucking creep._ ) He also notices that Murphy’s ribs are showing like they used to, and that the wound on his forehead is beginning to look infected. He wonders when the last time Murphy ate is, wonders if he’s bothered to clean his wounds, wonders if he-

Wait. Since when does he care?

Bellamy snatches up the firewood, getting what he came for, and is moving to stand when a voice breaks the gentle silence, save for the crackling of the fire. “G’night. Love you,” Murphy mutters, sleep heavy in his voice.

Bellamy’s face contorts into something ugly, horrified. Did he just-?

“-Dad,” he finishes, tongue barely moving to enunciate the word, and Bellamy almost misses it.

_Oh._

He laughs.

And then he’s... sad.

“Goodnight, _John,_ ” Bellamy says, deepening his voice a bit, just for the theatrics.

He likes the way Murphy’s first name sounds on his tongue, and he likes the drowsy little smile that a clearly barely conscious Murphy adopts. Bellamy almost feels guilty, but hopes that maybe he’ll sleep a bit more soundly if he believes he’s just a kid in his bed on the Ark again.

And then he wonders why he cares, again, and moves back to his side of the fire, looking around to make sure no one had witnessed one of Bellamy’s possibly strangest interactions. He dumps Murphy’s firewood into the dancing, deep orange flames, and pulls his knees to his chest, figuring someone should probably keep watch. The fact that he’s only facing the sleeping boy across the fire and has his back to the rest of his group is not a thought that crosses his mind.

He watches the fire and listens to the cicadas cry out in the night, flames leaving flickering shadows over Murphy’s back, shirt shifting with each breath. Eventually the boy moves, only to drape an arm over his throat, perhaps guarding it, leaving his hand to rest at the nape of his neck. Bellamy notices almost immediately how his thin fingers begin to weave themselves in his hair and seem to brush up and down in a slow, gentle rhythm, and Bellamy’s eyes soften- almost fondly- at the image.

He recalls how many of his own nights he’s spent cradling his own hand, hoping to recreate the feeling of his beating heart’ed mother’s calloused fingertips, or the warm palms of the sister who once loved him.

Something comes over him then, sympathy, compassion, a number of other synonyms that should never be used in the same sentence as the name John Murphy. He feels the pulling urge to hold the boy, to comfort him, to comfort himself. To pretend he has someone.

He hates himself for it.

He’s in shock with himself even, as his body takes over and he begins to move around the fire, scooting on the side of his leg with trembling hands. The little voice in his brain screams, _“No!” “You can’t do that!” “Stop!” “Oh, God, this is not a rational decision!”_   But his body keeps on scooting.

He’s nearing the other man's boots, too close, when a new, lighter set of footsteps appears in his range of hearing. He quickly scrambles back to his side of the fire and begins to fake-absently pick at a string on his pants, eyes darting around without being directed to do so.

It’s the girlfriend.

Bellamy feels sweat beading on his forehead and forces his eyes down. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

“Hi,” she says, and her voice is rough, but kind. It’s nice.

Bellamy grunts, refusing to look up at her.

She turns her attention from him and onto Murphy, and Bellamy glances up to see a soft smile cross her features. She lowers herself down by his side and disappears behind his curled-up figure, before her arm finds a place draped over his waist, and all Bellamy can see of her is that mutated hand, illuminated by the firelight.

Murphy removes his arm from his throat and shifts closer to the girl, and Bellamy feels a harsh pang in his chest.

He'd wanted to do that.

Bellamy breathes in a burning whiff of smoky air to distract himself, and drops slowly down onto his back, crossing his arms behind his head and staring up into the silhouette tangle of branches criss-crossing over the night sky. There’s movement to his left, and Bellamy curls his fists and forces his eyes closed.

He lies there, stiff and silent and feeling unreasonably irritated, for what feels like an eternity. He eventually moves to lie on his side, facing away from the fire like Murphy had, and his hands meet near his waist.

Hesitantly, his fingers move to stitch together, intertwined like he always used to do. He closes his eyes and waits for the face of his mother or sister to appear, the image of their hand in his to slow his beating heart and make everything a little quieter inside.

The hand he imagines in his is too young and smooth to be his mother’s, too large to be his sister’s.

The face never comes, just that familiar head of matted, greasy brown hair tucked against his chest.

Bellamy sighs then, willing the image away and shaking out his still-sweaty hands. He turns onto his back, eyes cracked against the woodsmoke once more. He's just a little lonely, a little touch deprived is all. Nothing more to it. A little lonely, that's all.

Another hour passes and he’s glaring at the canopy of stars overhead, beautiful dead things, and still trying his hardest not to think about he-knows-who, when that little voice starts up again. _“You are hopelessly, utterly, wholly, and completely fucked,”_   it says.

 

It’s probably right.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sis au, beja = help, please
> 
> i wrote two whole new chapters today i dont know whats going on with me. but also dont get used to it, it could be this tuesday or weeks before i write the fourth one. i have no sense of responsibility or dedication. i'll try real hard though.
> 
> is this ? is this shit? i dont know if this is shit it feels like shit but thank u for reading my shit i love you xoxo -gossip girl
> 
> (p.s. is this out of character? writing a CRUSH from bellamy's pov is so hard and weird please do tell me if anyone or anything seems unrealistic)


	3. for all that it's worth now (you were worth it in the end)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! thanks for being patient, school is going well. 
> 
> note: i love emori but this is, you know, it's written from a very jealous bellamy's point of view, so. 
> 
> yep! thx for considering reading this and if you follow through please let me know in the comments what you thought, so that i can make the next chapter better.
> 
> <33

  
There’s a blurred promise of light, of soft sunrise, when his eyes flicker. The first thing he feels is the usual stickiness around his eyes, and then comes the prick of pine needles against his bare skin. After that, the still-haunting stench of ash, and the sound of soft breathing, light chatter to accompany it.

He cracks his eyes open at last, and a tan face comes into view, leaning in head-only from the right of his vision like a cartoon character. “Hey, everyone’s ready to get moving,” the face says, mouth opening and closing in quick, snap movements. Too much happening. Too early. Overwhelmed. Stop that. Bellamy blinks, and his brain silences. The figure is Jackson, and everyone is, indeed, ready to get moving, judging by the antsy looking crowd hovering about the clearing with squinted eyes and disheveled hair atop their heads.

“Okay,” Bellamy says, slowly. Jackson blinks at him, the patient man appearing unusually... impatient. The younger man looks over his shoulder, eyes aiming in the direction everyone seems to be shifting towards. Home.

His eyes flicker down.

Murphy.

He’d turned towards the dead fire, towards where Bellamy had slept, sometime in the night. He sleeps in that curly-Q way of his, knees pulled into an L shape and arms folded protectively over his stomach. He looks young, peaceful. Soft, even. His chest rises and falls evenly, with ease.

Bellamy doesn’t want to wake him.

An ever-observant Jackson looks to his left, making note of the way Bellamy’s eyes relax in the direction of the boy on the ground. He sighs, but there's a smile of understanding on his face. “He can sleep on a bed when we get back to camp,” the nurse argues, and takes a step forward. Bellamy reaches out reflexively to stop him, but quickly draws his hand back in, embarrassed.

Jackson shakes his head and continues his short, purposeful strides forward. “Hell, he can even sleep in _your_ bed when we get back- so wouldn’t you rather wake him now?” Bellamy sucks in a painful breath and chokes on it, spluttering. He blushes cherry red and holds up a finger to protest, but he’s still too dazed by sleep to form words, and too genuinely attracted to that proposal to really argue with it. Someone in the following behind him snickers, and he tightens his fists by his sides, his humiliation quickly snowballing into unwarranted anger.

Jackson nudges the human roly-poly in his bed of dirt and pine, and Murphy stirs slowly, just as Bellamy had. He puckers his lips to blow the fringe from his vision, his puffy-eyed, colorless face finally coming into view as he sits up. Bellamy shoves the feelings of endearment rising in his throat back down with immense force. The boy’s hair is suddenly sticking up in every direction, a shattered compass rose of brown, and his clothes are wrinkled and askew, bits of his pale stomach peeking out from under a twisted, pine-needle decorated tee.

Bellamy shakes his head as admiration stirs around in his empty stomach, quickly brushing any and all of those bothersome feelings away as he begins his trek out of the clearing and towards home. He can’t be distracted, there’s work to do.

 

  
\---

 

A few minutes of silent marching, boots pounding heavily and somewhat quickly against the earth after a night of rest, and Bellamy is just beginning to grow uninterested in the pale oranges and yellows of the morning sunrise. He’s redirecting his focus onto the way the grass shimmers under a layer of cold dew when someone sidles up next to him, their heavy, clumsy footfall oh-so-familiar. Bellamy internally groans.

“Hey,” he rasps.

“Hey.”

“How’s it going?”

“Do you care?”

“Not really.”

Bellamy shakes his head, fighting a grin. Murphy snorts. It’s both ugly and cute at the same time. Bellamy gets angrier.

“You look kinda rough, man.”

The older man glances down as he walks, noticing that all his clothes are crooked, and littered with pine and cold dirt. He brushes a hand against his stomach to flick away the intruding earth, doing the same against his back, and the fronts and backs of his thighs. Murphy watches. He swipes the soil from his backside, and Murphy snorts again. Bellamy shoots him a glare, but he feels a blush coming on. _What a fucking schoolboy._

The shorter boy looks him up, nodding his head in approval until he reaches the top. “You’ve got a little-” he raises a hand to motion towards the top of his head, and Bellamy mirrors him, shaking a hand around in his hair. Murphy’s nose crinkles up as he waves his hand to the left, and Bellamy doesn’t take it for Murphy’s left, so he picks at the left of his own hair. The smaller brunet knits his brows, before drifting slightly forward and reaching up to fix the problem on his own.

Bellamy’s heart stutters as his fingertips dip into his curls and brush against his scalp before pulling away, a small twig in their grasp. Murphy backs up again and flicks the twig into the brush, giving an awkward, lopsided grin as an explanation. Bellamy puts on his best “You’re an idiot,” face, and the smile quickly drops from Murphy’s. Bellamy misses it immediately, but tries his best to look ahead and adopt an appearance feigning disinterest and annoyance. Never fails.

They’re quiet for a moment, the both of them looking ahead into the rising sun over the approaching hill. Bellamy spares a high-stakes, soft-eyed glance at Murphy, and finds that the wound on his forehead looks a bit yellowish-green in the light. Murphy catches him staring, his head snapping quickly to the left as he senses someone watching him. “What're you looking at?”

Bellamy stumbles over his words for a moment, surprised. “Your head wound looks infected. I’ll clean it for you when we get to camp.”

Murphy opens his mouth, then clamps it closed again, eyelids fluttering but never fully closing as he hesitates.

“It’s not a big deal, or anything,” Bellamy offers, nervous now. “I saved some pretty strong moonshine of Monty’s, which should disinfect it," he fumbles, and when Murphy still doesn’t speak he begins to malfunction a bit. Maybe he misjudged how close they were, what if he hates him? He probably doesn’t even want to see Bellamy when they get back, why would he want his help? Oh, God, no. He’s made a mistake. Stupid, stupid, stup-

“It’s- it’s not that.”

Bellamy’s face twists up as he looks to Murphy for elaboration, but the boy just drops his head and stares at the ground as it falls away behind their footprints.

Bellamy retraces his steps. _Staring, wound, infected, clean it, for you, when we get back to-_

Oh.

 _“Oh,”_ he breathes. Murphy’s dragging the toe of his boot in the red mud as he walks, hands pocketed now. He looks uncomfortable. Bellamy decides to drop it, feeling wounded.

He’s not coming back.

Fuck.

 

\---

 

Bellamy looks up. The canopy overhead drips with freshly fallen rain and reveals peeks of solid gray sky, and the silence between them other than the crunching of leaves underfoot is suddenly interrupted by a flash of yellows and browns.

She pulls his fist from his jacket and intertwines their fingers with ease. Murphy immediately looks calmer with her, gentler, and Bellamy's stomach does the angriest of somersaults.

He's sure it's wrong. But he's not sure he cares so much anymore.

He kind of hates her.

She leans her head on his shoulder as they walk, hand in hand. Bellamy drifts away, out of his-- their space.

“There's a path near Arkadia that leads off into the Broad Leaf Clan trails. I think we should start business up again near there. A new area and lots of things for us to get our hands on. What do you say?”

Murphy shrugs, though his face betrays him as it lights up at what she’s proposing. Bellamy is walking further ahead and growing increasingly frustrated, so he says, “There’s clothes and food at Arkadia, and you wouldn’t even have to rob people for them, you know,” he bites. Girlfriend doesn’t get the hint.

"Well that’s no fun, is it?”

Bellamy grumbles, knowing if he sticks around any longer he might spontaneously combust in pure, inexplicable fury. He quickens his speed and puts some distance between them, slowly pushing the couple out of his range of hearing, and in turn hopefully out of mind.

But he does catch one last snide comment from the brunette, as she mutters, “What’s his problem?” He rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they might get stuck that way. Maybe if they did, he wouldn’t have to see them together anymore.

 

\---

 

He’s counting on blood-splattered fingers all the things he needs to care of back at Arkadia. He’s on number eight now, which is get wasted on the moonshine that he won’t be using for Murphy’s wounds, when, speak of the devil, he appears again.

Bellamy thinks about spitting at him, or a number of other petty things that only Murphy would do. He wonders for a moment who he’s become, and then remembers what Clarke told him once, in the shadows of the dropship. “Jealousy’s a bitch, and it makes you one too,” he didn’t find out why until it was too late.

Murphy shuffles awkwardly by his side, fiddling with his own fingers like he does. Bellamy tries not to look at it.

“You’re uh- you’re not actually mad, are you?”

Bellamy bristles. “Where’s your girlfriend?” Condescending. And then, “Don’t you have some innocent people to steal from, or something?”

Murphy huffs, turning on his heel and quickening his space to walk backwards in front of Bellamy, a dangerous game with his particular level of grace.

“Is that really what this is about? Us stealing?”

Bellamy grunts, lacking a suitable response because, not really, no.

Murphy takes umbrage of sorts, his brows turning down and twisting his face up in a very unattractive way. “Yeah, real rude of me, stealing and all,” he pauses, tapping his chin feigning legitimate thought. “Maybe I should be more like you and just kill-”

Bellamy shoves him. Hard.

 _“Fuck you,”_ he spits.

Murphy stumbles backwards, holding his hands out to balance himself.

Bellamy looks up at him to see the damage done, to see if this new, peaceful Murphy is merely frowning, or writing a letter of disapproval, or something.

He spoke too soon.

Something changes in the boy, something feral. It reminds him of the Murphy he used to know.

Murphy lunges forward with all his weight, bringing Bellamy down with him on top, the upper-hand more than his. His eyes are dark, a sheen of sweat already covering his flushed cheeks. He pulls back a fist and Bellamy flinches, eyes squeezed closed and body tensed, prepared for the blow that never comes.

His fist hovers there, in midair. He’s frozen solid, knees on either side of Bellamy’s hips as he straddles him, and the taller man is both scared and a little turned on. He scolds himself for thinking like that, particularly at a time like this.

Murphy drops his fist and dangles his hands weakly by his sides as he sighs, breathing out slowly. He rises slowly and steps away from Bellamy, looking down at him with countless emotions in his eyes. Clear, busy blue. Bellamy aches a little bit at the loss of contact, but is too disgusted by himself to really dwell further on the thought.

“Sorry,” Murphy says. Bellamy shrugs from his place on the ground, dirt and dead leaves shifting underneath his shoulder blades. He’s exhausted, still weak from yesterday’s battle, and has no motivation to stand up again.

But, to his shock, the younger man extends a hand and Bellamy takes it with only a moment of hesitation, noting how the other boy is mirroring Bellamy’s actions of yesterday in the elevator. His heart skips a beat and he’s immediately ashamed.

As Murphy pulls him upright, Bellamy can’t help but marvel at the way their hands- his large ones enveloping Murphy’s almost entirely- fit together so well, like pieces of a puzzle. They’re standing now, and instead of letting go, Bellamy’s still staring at their molded palms. Murphy blushes slightly, and Bellamy almost jumps. A reaction, a sign, a signal. Something. Fucking _something!_

He jerks his hand away as if shocked and Bellamy follows quickly, watching as the boy jams his deep into his pockets and he sees his fingers twitching against the fabric. The raven-haired man lifts a hand to the back of his neck in matching embarrassment, scratching absently just to look busy, unconcerned.

Little moth-like creatures flit through the pale blue of approaching noon, and Bellamy imagines them to be little gray-skinned, white-winged fairies, something out of a storybook that he’d read to Octavia. Murphy’s breathing too loud, too fast, Bellamy’s back hurts. His hips hurt now, too. Everything hurts. He’s hungry, he’s tired. He really wants a drink.

“Bellamy?”

His voice is scratchy, like he’s sick. Bellamy wonders when the last time he had a sip of water was.

The curly-haired man looks at him, eyes kind and fair, this time. Murphy keeps his on the wet ground.

“I have to go with her, you know.”

“I know.”

Silence. He’s breathing quieter now. There’s a pounding in Bellamy’s ears.

Murphy tries to dry up a dampened mood, drifting across the path to bump his arm against Bellamy’s, a sad looking half-smile plastered on his face. “I’ll visit.”

Bellamy laughs. It’s real. It hurts. Everything hurts. He’s lonely.

“Okay.”

 

It’s not.

 

 


	4. for all that its worth (i would have loved you until the end)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a very VERY short, mean chapter. i'll sorta explain why at the end
> 
> i love you for reading thanks so much

 

 

There was something broken about the way he left.

The shadow at his back looking too meek and too small to give him the grand exit that he’d imagined, and the bloodless, stabbing pain at the base of Bellamy’s throat nearly willing him to his knees as he watched. That thief of a girl whisking the boy away in a hurricane of sun-faded skirts and streaming cloth, ripping from the hands yet another thing from an unsuspecting man.

He’s at the gates and someone’s leaving him again and it’s all too familiar. His stomach burns. He might vomit.

_There was something broken about it._

But Bellamy chokes it down and flashes his pride, sending the brunet off with a forced smile and spurs in his cheeks. Murphy blinks those rose-tinted pearls of eyes at him, and Bellamy thinks if he were any stupider he might have kissed him right then and there, under the unforgiving sun and the eyes of a god who never loved them.

(His head is rotten and wrong and he’s a fucking idiot.)

“Save some of that moonshine for me, will ‘ya?”

Bellamy trips over his tongue, settles for a firm nod. Murphy’s easy smile falters. He'd hoped for more. Too fucking bad.

The girl is standing in the background, rocking back and forth on her toes with her mottled hands folded before her. She catches the eyes of the raven-haired man and she softens, looking between the two of them with kind features. Bellamy startles, clearing his throat and looking to the ground for a hiding place, when Murphy begins to turn towards the woods that will soon engulf him, take him away. Bellamy wants to grab him, pull him back, to shake him. He wants to- hit him? No. He wants him to stay. He wants him to- be... _safe._

“Be safe.”

Murphy stumbles, then, and looks over his shoulder with those wide blue eyes and perpetually angry brows. In a flash of light and whirring movement that makes Bellamy’s brain feel like a shuttle’s taking off inside- there’s arms around his neck and a tuft of hair on his chest.

His heart fucking plummets.

The younger man’s hands twitch against the broadness of Bellamy’s back, and with quaking limbs and a paling face Bellamy returns the gesture, dropping his chin to a narrow shoulder and breathing in the perfume of blood and wood-smoke that clings to him like a second skin. He hadn't realized how long he'd wanted this, how many times in the beginning and then again in the end that he'd imagined it- in a thousand unique ways. This was the most imperfect- the most unsatisfying. But all of that falls away here, because he feels each of Murphy's breaths against his chest, his heart beating in tune with the latter's like an oh-too-gentle symphony.

I love you? crawls to the tip of Bellamy's tongue and dies there. Perhaps for the better. ( _This isn't about love. This is- this is abandonment. This is false hope. This is dying. Dyingdyingdying.)_ He can't help but think in the back of his mind that it could've been true one day, years from now.

This- softness- isn't them. But maybe it is.

Murphy feels smaller in Bellamy’s arms than he’d imagined, when the taller man realizes he’s shrinking away. He aches. _Come back. Stay. Right here. Please don't leave- me. Don't leave me. Not you too._

Murphy’s face is flushed when he pulls back, shaking hands still resting heavily on Bellamy’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

Murphy shrugs. “Take care of yourself, Blake.”

And with that, he stalks off, hand-in-hand with that thief of a girl into the height of the flourishing forests that Bellamy knows won’t spit him back out alive. But Bellamy watches him go until his silhouette is nothing more than a spec of beige in the far, far away.

Then, when the mighty green swallows the boy up, he himself turns, eyes dry and tongue lead-heavy, and thinks only about downing every last drop of that stupid fucking shine- because he won’t need it later.

 

And that's just the _somethingbroken_  about the way he stays.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: this IS the end of the fic, evil as it is. i do plan now on eventually writing a happy epilogue or maybe even a continuation of this in the future if anyone's interested
> 
> anyways ily and thank you endlessly for reading. i apologize sincerely for being a jerk and the messiest most unorganized fucking writer to have ever plagued this site
> 
> <3 jen


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